


i was in there when it happened

by rocketfallen



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: M/M, PWP pretending to not be PWP, crazy wash is still my favorite wash, holy shit this is six years old, i will never trust the import tool ever again the html took me an hour to fix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-08
Updated: 2016-02-08
Packaged: 2018-05-19 04:14:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5953225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rocketfallen/pseuds/rocketfallen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He just wanted to see him, just to be sure, and maybe that would be enough. Wash-unraveling-at-the-seams-centric.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i was in there when it happened

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written in 2010 on LJ under the title [Enough,](http://ill-katana.livejournal.com/7133.html#comments) and being imported here mostly because I still don't know how LJ hasn't already scattered to the cosmic wind in a burst of stardust. As such, contains some intepretations of the Epsilon incident and stuff that's proven very non-canon, but idgaf. This is more fun.
> 
> Church survived the EMP and has a body somehow because I say so. Lyrics from _When The Crash Happened,_ by Tub Ring, my crazy Wash song of choice.

  
  


_i was in there when it happened_  
_& i was hoping for so much worse._  
_i wanted so much more, what else is all this for_  
_so i'll wait here for the things that are coming to me._

  
  


Wash just wanted to see him.

He gives it a moment, leaning back patiently on the wall with his arms folded loosely across his chest, tapping his fingers idly against his arm as he waits for the inevitable, and yeah, Church is staring at him like he's goddamn crazy.

"What?" Church says incredulously, like he doesn't understand, and of course he doesn't.

He doesn't hesitate, just repeats himself, more firmly this time, "Take off your helmet."

And when Church starts to protest again ( what the fuck are you asking me to take it off for, man ), he doesn't hesitate, because Wash doesn't so much ask people to do shit as much as he does give _orders_. He doesn't need to explain himself, right, he has authority here, he's a commanding officer and Church is _nothing_ , and he moves forward until he can reach out to curl his gloved fingers underneath the shoulder plating of Church's armor. He doesn't wait for Church to protest to _that_ , either, doesn't give him much of a chance to do anything, because the very next moment Church is being shoved against the wall, the breath knocked out of his lungs, hands scrabbling around Wash's arm to try and push him off.

But, well, yeah, Wash has always been stronger, and he drops his weight to his elbow, pressed against Church's chest, pushing at his ribs so he won't have enough fucking air to speak. Church's voice fucking _bothers_ him, and he can't think too much about it, he can't think too much about everything from the way it sounds from the way the words must somehow be forming in his throat, and he'd just rather not goddamn deal with it, right now, he just wants to see he just wants to be sure. He works quickly, shifting his free hand behind Church, undoing the latches on his helmet, twisting it off and tossing it aside.

( _what do you see?_ )

Wash studies his face closely, too close, like he's trying to commit everything to memory, his gaze dragging from the line of his jaw, to his chin, the curve of his throat and the line of his nose, the way his hair falls on his face, the way his eyes are almost watering from the lack of air, the way his lips move as he's gasping and choking and managing a few words now and then ( -- fucking _Christ_ you asshole get off I can't -- ), like he's looking for something, and he is.

He's looking for something wrong, something different, something to tell him that this isn't _right_ , looking for a loose thread to pull at so that everything can unravel and fall apart and he can try to make sense of it, because that inecessant little voice at the back of his skull is telling him over and over again he's not real you know he's not real just a projection just wires and circuits and _lies_ they're trying to fool you again he's not human he's not human you know what he is what do you see, but.

( -- I just see a man. )

There's nothing.

Wash lets go, taking a few steps back to give Church his space as the other man half-collapses against the wall, claws at his chest with one hand like he's trying to feel his ribs through the armor to make sure they're not fucking _broken_ , combs a hand through his hair as he practically chokes on the oxygen that he wasn't getting before, and there's that voice again, yelling with what little air he has, "What the hell is your _problem_ , Wash?"

Something twists deep inside his gut, in his lungs, tearing through his chest to the pit of his stomach, and he turns away, tells Church to be ready to move by morning. He hates the way his voice stumbles a little across his name like he isn't sure he should say it, like he doesn't know if he should be saying something else.

It's nothing. He just wanted to see him. Just to be sure.

( _you know his name, don't you, david?_ )

He lingers for just a second or two, just enough to see Church turn in the other direction and hear him curse under his breath, fumbling with the latches when he fixes the helmet back on his head, just enough to catch one last glimpse of an actual human face.

( Yeah. )

And he walks away, without another word.

  


* * *

  


He just wanted to touch him.

What's surprising is that Church doesn't push him away, not immediately, and later, Wash would wonder if it was because he had no idea who or what the fuck it was at the time. Church had been sitting down, back against a wall, fiddling aimlessly with a piece of his armor, turning it over in his hands, and Wash had been somewhere else, walked over and knelt down next to him, brushing his hand down over the muscles of his arm.

Church just freezes and does nothing, for a moment, and Wash just keeps his hand there, slipping his fingers down until they settle at his elbow, and by the time Church finally looks around at him, Wash dimly realizes this is probably the first time the guy's actually seen him without his armor, and. Oh well.

And Church starts to say something, then, moving his hand to Wash's to try and pull him off, but Wash just curls his free hand into the front of his under-armor shirt, shoves him back against the wall. He moves in close, too close, practically straddling him as he fits their bodies together, until he can feel Church's heart beating against his own chest, until he could feel it when Church's breath hitches against his cheek, and he.

He isn't thinking at all, really, he's trying not to think about what he's doing. It's just that voice in his head, and he just wanted to touch him, just wanted to be sure, he feels warm and real and human, too, and he count Church's ribs under his fingers, could time his heartbeats like he's trying to make sure they're real, like he's not being _fooled_.

( _are you sure, are you sure, you know what he is and it isn't _human_._ )

Wash isn't himself, not really, and Church is still talking, practically yelling at him to get off, but he doesn't hear a thing. He just responds to Church trying to shove him off by shoving him back into the wall harder, pinning him there with his weight, his forehead pressed against Church's own as his hand presses against Church's side, moves down to his hip, fingers pushing just under the line of his pants to brush at warm skin just over his hipbone.

Church stops talking, then, and Wash remembers exactly where he is and what the fuck he's doing, and oh god, he'll think about this shit later, what the hell is wrong with you Wash you're supposed to be in control of this. Wash freezes like he's just woken up, his muscles rigid and tense, and then he's pulling back, starting to stand up, not sure how the hell he should even try to explain himself.

" -- Hey, _asshole_."

And Church is jerking him back down, by the front of his own shirt, and it's unexpected enough that Wash actually doesn't do anything about it. There's a silence, though, a distinct pause, and finally, Church breaks it again.

"Nice to see that you can actually breathe outside of your armor and shit."

Wash might've even fucking smiled or laughed or something at that if it was at all the type, if he wasn't busy being distracted by how this shouldn't have happened at all, he has a better grip on himself than this, and he's looking away, jerking out of Church's grip as he straightens himself fully. He considers saying something, but, what the fuck, there isn't even really that much to say.

( _isn't there?_ )

So he just -- turns away, let's just pretend that didn't happen he doesn't want to deal with it not right then not right now, when he was in a better frame of mind, maybe, when his mind wasn't working on overdrive trying to piece together how little sense this made, how Church was so fucking human when he really shouldn't be. His fingers curl into his palms, at his sides, and he walks back over to where he was before, the disassembled pieces of his gun still resting on the floor, and he crouches down to retrieve them.

"By the way, Wash?" Church calls out to him from where he is, still hasn't moved, and Wash freezes just a little. "That was really goddamn _creepy_."

Wash ignores him, then, and goes back to cleaning his gun.

  


* * *

  


He just wanted to taste him.

He'd done it without thinking, without hesitating -- Church had been sitting down, by the fire, his armor set down beside him, peering cautiously at matte black metal of his sniper rifle. Wash wasn't anywhere near him, one moment, and the next he was right there, fingers of one hand circling tightly around the other's wrist, dragging him up off the floor, his other hand tipping his chin up so he could lean down and crush their mouths together.

Church doesn't do _anything_ , for awhile, and Wash figures that's probably a good thing because he doesn't know what the fuck he's doing, either. There's a dull, metallic clatter of the rifle falling to the floor, and Wash is too aware of the warmth of the fire near them, of Church's free hand shifting and tightening in his shoulder like he's about to shove him off.

( _does he taste real too, david?_ )

But Church doesn't push him away, and Wash tries not to think too much about that, too. He just shifts his hand over Church's face, pushes his thumb into the hinge of his jaw so he can force his stupid fucking mouth open. It's -- clumsy, harsh and vicious, nothing like a real kiss not a real proper kiss because it _isn't_ , right, this isn't about that at all, and he's dragging his tongue across his teeth, over the roof of his mouth, drawing his tongue into his own and sucking on it, he just wants to know if he'd taste like a goddamn _person_ , too.

And he does, kind of, heated and softer than he'd imagined, and he nips down on Church's lip hard enough to draw blood, soothes his tongue over the little wound, that tastes like -- copper, warm and bittersweet. There's something off about it, about the whole thing, because he tastes real he tastes real like an actual person that Wash knows he really isn't, but underneath that, just beneath it, there's just a hint of something.

He kisses him harder, like he's trying to get at that taste, like he kind of knows what it is but he isn't sure because fucking face it, when's the last time he's done this with another person, when's the last time he's even come close? So long ago, too long ago, and maybe he imagines it, but it's just that.

( He tastes like fucking _metal_. )

It's like steel. Cold steel and iron, like a goddamn machine, but how could he be so _warm?_

Wash would have kept kissing him, too, just to be sure, he'd have kept at it because he didn't know what else to do and that little voice at the back of his head is urging him on ( _are you sure are you so sure maybe you're fucking _crazy_ after all_ ) but his lungs start to ache from the lack of air, but Church's fingers are digging into his shoulder enough for it to _hurt_. So he breaks away, lets go, and he.

Doesn't stay around long enough to look at him, doesn't wait for Church to say shit, just turns around to leave, and vaguely realizes an hour or two later that Church hadn't pushed him away at all.

  


* * *

  


He just wanted to help him.

Wash just says it one day, when the daylight starts to fade, peering at the horizon through the visor of his helmet. Somewhere behind him, Wash can hear it when Church pauses as he's taking off his armor. It doesn't make much sense, all things considered, but it's true, right, that's all Wash ever wanted to do, and he just kind of waits in the silence for Church to do something, to call him crazy or ask him what the hell his problem was.

The silence just -- hangs, for seconds that stretch into minutes that feel like they stretch for fucking forever, and then it's finally broken, bit by tiny bit, by the little metallic sounds of clasps and latches as Church just continues on like Wash hadn't said anything to begin with.

He gives it a minute, but.

( _you don't just want to _help_ him_ \-- )

Then he's talking, again. More than he's ever really spoken before, and he's waiting for Church to interrupt him and tell him to shut the hell up, but there's nothing, just the sound of more of his armor being taken off and set aside, and Wash just keeps going. He talks about how he doesn't really know what the fuck he's doing, what he's been doing, that all along he's just been moving in a straight line towards this one singular goal because if he doesn't have it, he doesn't have anything else. He talks about how bringing the Director down is the only thing he has, the only thing he lives for, and he doesn't fucking know what else there is. He talks about, and _this_ earns him the tiniest pause from Church behind him, how if he thinks too much about it sometimes, about how sticking a bullet into the man's brain probably wouldn't be enough.

Because well, he says, that isn't what the Director did to him, not what Freelancer did to him. They didn't kill him, they didn't really kill any of them, but they did so much worse. They made him live through every single waking moment of someone being driven to insanity, they gave him memories that weren't even his, memories that play through his head every time he closes his eyes, and sometimes not just then. Memories of being torn to shreds and ripped apart, of trying so desperately to stay whole but not being able to fight it, about being pushed down and pulled up and pushed down again and again, about being forced to tear to pieces until nothing's left but a terrible, empty core, just to survive, just to try and make it through, about trying to scream about not really finding the voice.

Your memories, he says to Church, without looking around at him, your fucking memories, not mine, but you can't have them back because he'd do anything he'd give _anything_ to not see him go through it again, to not hear him hurt again, to not have to deal with those fucking images and voices that make it hard to close his eyes, let alone sleep.

( -- _you fucking _liar__. )

He talks about how it doesn't really make sense, but it's what he's ended up with, the memories of someone else who doesn't remember. He's the only one who remembers that that's why he has to do this, he has to be the one to bring him down, he has to take revenge because no one else can, and somehow he'll put Church back together again, pull together all the pieces, somehow he'll make it alright he'll make it good and he'll make it whole --

And he'd have kept on talking, but then Church isn't just right in front of him, but kneeling down over him, settling almost neatly into his lap, and Wash hadn't noticed when Church was done taking off his armor but there he was now. Wash is caught too far off guard to really do anything, and even then he doesn't know what the fuck he's supposed to do, just sits there with his muscles rigid and frozen into place when Church reaches his fingers behind him and undoes the latches of his helmet, sets it aside.

Church's hands settle on either side of his face, and he just looks at him for a moment.

Wash opens his mouth to ask him what the hell he's doing, but then his mouth his on his, they're kissing again, and Church kisses like he wants to be in control as much as he wants to lose control, like this is the only thing he knows how to do, and Wash doesn't hesitate. He kisses him back in just the same way, aggressive and deep and searching, trying to find something to help put it everything together and make everything okay again.

This time it's Wash that moves to dig his fingers into Church's shoulder, probably a little harder than he should have since he still has his fucking armor on, hard enough to bruise at skin and muscle, and Church soothes his thumbs over Wash's cheekbones, and this time it's Church that breaks away.

" -- What the fuck ever. I don't need your help."

If Wash were the type, he might have laughed.

"I've been in your head once, you know, if you forgot, and I don't know how you kept everything from me but you're lucky, maybe, you're fucking lucky." Church's hands finally fall away from his face as he talks, and Wash still doesn't know what to do, what to say, just stares at him and settles his own hand next to him on the floor as Church jerks away from his grip, stands upright again. "You've got a lot of messed up shit in there, a lot of shit that isn't even yours."

Wash remembers that, yeah, remembers fighting to keep everything away from Church as much as he can during those few minutes he was in his head, remembers Church probing and searching around for every last detail, trying to find out as much as he can, and Wash let him have some, let him have his name, his life, what he was like during Freelancer, the army, the war, before, but he wouldn't let he wouldn't let go of that one memory, that one thing that Church was actually _looking_ for.

Church is turning away to leave, picking up his sniper rifle and slinging it over his shoulder, and Wash isn't sure what to say, what to do, half pushes himself upright and starts, "Church --"

But Church just keeps walking, shoots him a glare of his shoulder, and says, "Maybe you should think about helping yourself, _David_."

Wash's lungs twist hard in his chest, but he doesn't stop him again.

  


* * *

  


Wash wants so much more.

He wants so much more than this, than Church beneath him, pressed into the dirt, gasping and shaking under his touch, but he doesn't even know how it came to this, how he got here, how they both got here, if he started it or Church did. In a way Wash almost thinks it's inevitable, that they would've gotten here eventually but it still doesn't solve the question of _how_ , and he hates that he's thinking about it he's always thinking about it about everything -- he tightens his fingers around Church's cock as he thrusts into him again, deep and hard, and Church's voice trembles like it's about to break, mouthing words that Wash can't altogether hear.

Wash wonders if Church realizes that the way he sounds, the way he acts, fingers clawing and digging into the skin of Wash's back like he needs something to hold onto, like if he doesn't hold onto him then everything's going to fall apart, the way he shakes and shudders, the way his heart beats so fucking fast in his chest, is almost the same fucking way he acted when they were pulling him to pieces.

( _and what does that make you?_ )

But he doesn't think about that. He tries not to think about it, not to think about anything, tries to focus how on how good it feels on how good and right and fucking _wrong_ it feels, on fucking him hard and rough but slow into the ground, dragging his teeth up over the side of his neck, nipping and sucking at warm, heated flesh. Every now and then Church's gasps and moans turn into words, into something more audible, tangible, real.

" -- Oh god oh god come on, you fucking bitch, do it faster just _fuck me_ \-- "

And Wash would respond by grinding inside him _hard_ , pressing himself so close that he could memorize the way Church's ribs feel against his own, pressing his face against the side of his neck, gasping into his skin as Church rocks back into him and groans low into his ear, tangling his fingers through his hair.

He doesn't think, he tries not to think, and sooner or later it gets impossible to think, anyway, because it feels fucking _good_ , so good that the feeling crawls through his nerves to the tips of his fingers all the way to his goddamn toes. He curls his fingers around him, pushing his thumb over the leaking head of his cock, stroking him in time to his thrusts, steady, _steady_ , building in his pace, getting faster and faster, his breath hitching repeatedly over Church's skin as he brushes his lips down back over the pulse in his neck, down to the dip of his throat.

Church almost sounds halfway hysterical when he comes, rocking his hips back to meet Wash's own as he thrusts deep into him, groaning and fumbling over words and sentences that don't make much sense. His fingers scrabble desperately across Wash's back, to his shoulder, over his arms, and Wash hears him choke on his name.

On a different name. On one Wash hasn't heard in a very, _very_ long time, on a name that Wash has almost forgotten, had half-forgotten that Church knew when he was prying deep into his thoughts and into his mind, and it hits him hard, mkes him feel almost hollow.

He just keeps fucking him because how the hell is he supposed to stop, it feels good, it feels too good, and not too long after he's grinding forward and coming _hard_. And he says something, too, starts to say a name, but a different name, on a name that Church probably hasn't heard in a very, _very_ long time, but he chokes it down, swallows hard and just rides it out with a wordless groan.

The name rings through his head, anyway.

( Alpha -- )

And later, when Church isn't pulling away just yet, when he's just laying there with his head on his chest and the other's fingers are still twisted loosely through his hair, when he's just listening to the sound of his heartbeat slowing down and down -- he's thinking, again. Not thinking about how good it felt, how bad it felt, how wrong and right it was, about the warmth sinking into his muscles from Church's body, about Church's hand sliding up along his spine.

He's just thinking about how -- it isn't enough. It isn't enough, he'd wanted so much more than this.

  


* * *

  


And what he wants, what he _really_ wants, is to give it all back.

Wash wants to help him, he wasn't lying, it's true, but that isn't all he wants at all. He doesn't want to hurt him, would do _anything_ but hurt him, because isn't that what this whole fucking thing was about? About helping him, about saving him, about taking revenge for everything they've done to him, and yeah, that's true, but sometimes.

Sometimes.

Sometimes, when he watching Church, studying him closely from where he's standing just because, it hits him just how horrible it is, just how fucking unfair it is. He never asked for this, he never asked for the responsibility, he never asked for these memories that weren't even his, and why the hell is it him and not anyone else, just because he was unlucky, just because he drew the short straw and they happened to give him _that_ one? Sometimes, he can tell, Church wants it back, wants what's in his head, wants to draw it out and put himself back together to be whole again and Wash won't fucking give it to him, this is _his_ , right, his to keep, but.

There are moments, little moments like now, when he wants to give it back.

When he wants nothing more but to break apart Church's skull with his own hands, sink his fingers deep into the folds of his brain. He wants to dig his nails into his skin and peel it off his flesh, strip him down to the bone, down to his guts and his beating, beating heart that he really shouldn't have, he wants to pry it all apart until he's left with nothing but circuits and wires and a tiny little fragment of what Church used to be, no, not even that. Because Church isn't even a fragment, he's just the core, he's just what's left behind after everything else is gone, and Church _knows_ it. He knows what he is.

Wash wants to forget. But he can't forget, he can't let go, not when this is a part of him now, not when it's turned him into what he is today, and god he doesn't want to hurt him but sometimes he just wants to dig his fingers through his stupid little ribs until he fucking _screams_.

( You want it back, I'd give it back, I'd give it all back if I could I'd fucking do it myself i'll _show_ you what it was likei'll _make_ youunderstand -- )

" -- Wash. Hey, Wash."

He blinks, focuses his version, and Church is standing there, a few feet in front of him, peering back at him through his visor, sniper rifle slung over his shoulder. For a moment Wash doesn't remember where he is. He doesn't remember how he got here.

"Hey," Church repeats, and he sounds more annoyed than anything. He jerks his thumb over his shoulder, and sighs, "Look, get over whatever fucking crisis you're having now, alright. Are we going to get going or what?"

Wash doesn't respond for a moment, still, fingers tightening around his own gun, the weight familiar over his arms, almost comforting, anchoring him back to the present reality.

( _bullets are clean and fast and easy but that wouldn't be enough for you, wouldn't it, it's just like you told him, it wouldn't be enough, you'd want to reach over and press your fingers into all the gaps of his spine, crack his skull against the pavement until all the blood and wire spills out over the concrete, anytime you wanted you could do it, he wouldn't be able to stop it, anytime at all --_ )

Wash brushes past Church, close enough that their shoulders bump together.

" -- Yeah. "

He leads the way, and Church follows after him, not knowing what the hell was going through Wash's mind at any given moment, and well.

Wash figures it's probably better off, that way.


End file.
